If the Crown Fits
by DaLantis
Summary: Sherlock develops into the detective we know and love, but in a slightly different way. Fem!Sherlock TEMP HIATUS
1. Birth of a Legend

**This story will have short chapters, quick updates, and hopefully, be quite fun. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter One:**

 **Birth of a Legend**

* * *

Mycroft Holmes at seven years old, was rather put out at the moment, as he stared down at the tiled floor of the French Hospital. His father and mother, country squires by trade who owned a large portion of land in Europe, had finally done the most ridiculous thing they could ever possibly do in his eyes and that is, have another baby.

Surely, he himself is good enough? He groused in his own mind, his arms crossed defiantly over his chest.

His father who sat beside him on these god-awful chairs, glanced in the direction of his son before looking back down the hall in the direction his mother had been taken. The man was obviously nervous, but Mycroft cared little at the moment, his entire being content on focusing on the rashness of it all.

The sudden appearance of a smiling nurse had his father suddenly jumping to his feet.

"Is she… are they… did it…"

"Calm yourself, Mr. Holmes," the nurse grinned, "your wife is fine and so is your daughter."

"Daughter…" his father whispered, but Mycroft did not hear him, his own mind suddenly freezing mid thought. A girl… a sister…

"Come, you may see them."

His father began walking with the nurse before stopping and turning back to his son.

"Come along Myc…" he said, though it was obvious his mind was elsewhere as he didn't notice his son already by his side, a deep frown on the small, young face.

"A girl will ruin everything," he muttered, unheard by his father.

He determined there and then he would never allow his new sister to interfere in his plans. She was a bother and he would treat her as such.

As the two entered the spacious hospital room, his mother looked up from her bed, a small pink bundle in her arms. She smiled at the sight of her husband and son, pecking her love on the lips before turning to the little boy.

"Mycroft, I want you to meet your sister… Willow Sherlock Sara Holmes."

Mycroft froze at the face of the child suddenly being thrust before him. It was small, red, and quite ugly in his own opinion. His lip curled up and he was ready to tell his mother such things, before he found himself being sat down on a chair nearby and the child placed on his lap.

Mycroft didn't dare move as he stared down at the being upon his figure. His arms were raised, as though in surrender, as he sat there, unsure of what to do or say. His parents chuckled, but he heard none of it as he continued staring at the baby.

Suddenly, it moved!

He had grabbed the wiggling little bundle before he knew what he was doing and held her to him, afraid she would roll off his legs. As soon as he had, he froze again, stunned at his own actions. Since when did he care if she might fall and get hurt? She was… _is_ … an annoyance, right? Right!

The baby cooed suddenly and her eyes opened. Mycroft was taken by the brilliance of those eyes, so blue… so captivating. Her eyes clumsily spun for a moment before they seemed to lock on his own and he couldn't help but feel there was a certain aspect of beauty in this disagreeable little form.

A sister… he thought to himself again, before a small smiled slipped across his lips, unhindered. "Willow Sherlock Sara Holmes," he repeated, "How… extraordinary."

"I think that means she is a keeper, darling," his mother commented to her husband.

The man laughed. Mycroft frowned, staring at them, but the sudden movement in his arms snapped his focus back to his sister.

"She is very small…" he stated, pointing out the obvious. He frowned upon realizing he had done so, yet he couldn't seem to think clearly.

"She is very small," his father agreed as the man knelt by his side and gently caressed the child's head, "She is also very weak. Until she becomes stronger, she will need constant protection."

"I will protect her!" Mycroft suddenly said, surprising himself in the process and yet… he felt the truth in those words. "I will always protect her."

His parents smiled.

"We believe you, son."


	2. Autism

**Chapter Two:**

 **Autism**

* * *

Nine year old Mycroft Holmes scowled at the wall of the doctor's office as he listened to the whisperings of nurses nearby. His two year old sister had baffled them, as only a Holmes child can.

Since the day of her birth, she had yet to speak. She didn't coo. She didn't play. She would just sit and observe people. She didn't seem interested in anything a normal baby would. She didn't laugh or smile. She didn't do anything, except stare.

Of course, Mycroft knew the truth. He could see it in her eyes, the intelligence there. He could see it in the way her hands moved when people weren't watching. She was learning, copying them, and yet they treated her like she was an idiot because she wouldn't say a word or mess with cheap, degrading toys.

He had tried to tell his parents as much, seeing as how he had been much the same at that age, but they did not listen. His parents argued she was much worse than Mycroft had ever been and that the doctors would soon discover the truth.

He shook his head, irritated. The fifth doctor in two months' time and still, no one could decide on why his sister is the way she is. The intelligence tests always came out high, obviously showing she was a genius like her older brother and yet… there she sat, unmoving, watching, and quiet. They were completely baffled by the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, as she had come to be called. It was the only name she would react to.

In Mycroft's opinion, that name suited her perfectly. It was elegant, high class, and above all… unique, just like them. Mycroft and Sherlock, child prodigies.

"Mrs. Holmes," stated the doctor as he came in.

Mycroft studied the man. Of all the doctors they had been to, this neurologist seemed the most competent, if not the most likable of the bunch. He actually spoke with them, rather than at them. He always stayed calm and answered questions the best he could, even stating he did not know if there was a question he could not answer. Honesty, respect, and professionality were extremely important characteristics in a doctor, Mycroft thought to himself, and this doctor matched them all. He liked him.

"After looking over what you sent me and what I could find by watching and speaking to your daughter, Sherlock, I must confess I am learning towards Autism being the answer."

"Autism?" his mother repeated, "surely that isn't…"

"I know she does not match all of the symptoms of Autism, but I believe that is because she is high functioning. Most conditions have levels of extremeness. The more extreme cases live their lives nearly unaware of their surroundings and refusing to meet the gaze, react to the voice, or even move, except in their own time if ever. Your daughter, in my opinion, is a low level that may or may not get better as she grows older. Some age out of their condition, while others, remain deeply rooted forever. Only time will tell."

"What can we do, doctor?" His mother asked, worry obvious in her tone, "is there nothing we can do to try and help her along?"

"For now, I would let her do as she always does, but I would make subtle attempts to include her in things. If she does not react or refuses, walk away. I would also go into the room she is in and begin speaking. It doesn't matter what about, but perhaps your words might interest her or break through the walls she has no doubt encircled herself with mentally. Many times, I have been told by my former patients that they tried reading books and it seemed to entice their child to come sit with them. It may not work for you, but it is an idea at the very least. In the meantime, we should set scheduled appointments to keep an eye on her progress."

Mycroft muted out the rest of their conversation as he locked eyes with his baby sister who was staring at him. She understood everything being said, he could tell, and to him, she looked upset with the diagnoses.

"Doctor," he suddenly stated, stopping their conversation.

The doctor turned to him, curious. Mycroft met his gaze head on.

"My sister… is it possible she is merely choosing to observe the world around her, rather than a sort of autism? Clearly we are both geniuses. Would it not be odd for a child like that to think toys and people boring if they do not interest her in any way?"

The doctor frowned, but he didn't immediately argue against the idea.

"I won't say it is impossible, but not very likely. Still, if this is what you believe… I suggest the same course of action as I mentioned for autistic children. Find something you think will interest her and read it to her or do it in front of her. Maybe your right and she will respond."

Mycroft felt a new surge of respect for this doctor as he nodded his head.

"Thank you sir, I will try it and see what occurs."


	3. Reaction

**The scientific observation quote came from Wikipedia, the philosophy of science.**

* * *

 **Chapter Three:**

 **Reaction**

* * *

For a year, Mycroft and his parents did as the doctor had suggested. They would hold conversations around her. They would read books aloud to her. They would work on things in her general line of sight. Still, she never seemed to respond. Father and mother became discouraged and began to draw away from the abnormal child, but not Mycroft… never Mycroft.

"Working scientists usually take for granted a set of basic assumptions that are needed to justify the scientific method: that there is an objective reality shared by all rational observers; that this objective reality is governed by natural laws; that these laws can be discovered by means of systematic observation and experimentation. Philosophy of science seeks a deep understanding of what these underlying assumptions mean and whether they are valid. The most popular position is empiricism, which holds that knowledge is created by a process involving observation and that scientific theories are the result of generalizations from such observations. Empiricism generally encompasses inductivism, a position that tries to explain the way general theories can be justified by the finite number of observations humans can make and hence the finite amount of empirical evidence available to confirm scientific theories. This is necessary because the number of predictions those theories make is infinite, which means that they cannot be known from the finite amount of evidence using deductive logic only…"

Mycroft who had been reading a book for school, suddenly froze at the feeling of a small hand resting on his back. Slowly, that hand came around to his front and he stared into the peering eyes of his little sister, now three years of age. Staring at one another, he didn't miss a beat as he scooped her up into his lap and continued reading.

She sat there, unmoving, staring down at the book before her as she rested her head against his chest. Her brown curls tickled his neck, but he ignored the feeling as he continued to read without stop about scientific observation and reasoning.

His sister occasionally leaned forward to peer at the pictures in the book, before retaking her place in his arms. It probably would have gone on for a while, had their mother not walked in at the moment and screamed.

" _She_! She is…! Oh darlings!"

Mycroft scowled as his sister flinched at the noise, hiding her head further against his chest.

"Has she spoken?! How did you get her onto your lap? What are you reading? May I try and…"

His mother reached out for his sister's arm and he had no time to rebuke such an action before his sister physically lashed out, her sharp little nails slicing across his mother's cheek. Both mother and children froze. Small rivulets of blood began to appear on her cheek as she stared at her daughter with watery eyes. Sherlock was shaking horribly within her brother's arms as she gripped herself tightly as though having been violated. Mycroft wasn't sure who to comfort.

At that moment, their father walked in. He took one look at the scene and put together what had occurred. He gently took his weeping wife out of the room, shooting Mycroft a look that clearly meant, see to your sister.

As their parents walked out, Mycroft looked down at the little girl now staring at her fingernails. The smallest and quietest of sounds came from her as she barely whispered the word, 'Sorry'. Mycroft froze. He knew not to react to her speaking, even though he was beyond grateful to have finally heard her voice. Instead, he gently wrapped his arms around her and drew her against him as he continued reading the book. Though tense at first, she slowly relaxed and he noticed, fell asleep, against his shoulder.

With a sigh, he gently picked up her light little form and carried her upstairs to her rarely used bedroom where he gently placed her down on the mattress and covered her with a blanket.

"Sleep easy, Sherlock. Big brother is watching over you."

And so Mycroft sat, leaning against the wall in the room, as his little sister slept away.


	4. Observation

**Chapter Four:**

 **Observation**

* * *

At age six, Sherlock had come a long way since her younger years. Shortly after that incident with mother, she began to walk and talk more, but only with Mycroft. She would remain as silent as stone around their parents or a stranger, but never with her brother. In fact, she talked so much about everything, it was almost annoying to the now thirteen year old boy. Then again, he remembered those days she never spoke and he felt almost privileged she had chosen him of everyone in the household.

Still, he felt a deep remorse as well. While his mother would never say such things, he could see the resentment she held for him and the almost fear, she held for her daughter. It angered him, yet he couldn't completely find it within himself to blame her for it.

His father on the other hand, had begun to act indifferent to everything. He ignored Sherlock's very existence. He minimally responded to Mycroft, and even towards his wife, he seemed to be withdrawing. It didn't take a genius to know what would mostly likely happen in the next year or so and yet… Mycroft found himself hoping his father stayed around, if only because he could remember what it had been like when his father had truly been that, his father.

When his sister had been born everything changed. He didn't feel resentment or conflict due to her being here, it was just a logical fact. Things changed when she was born. He may not have wanted her then, but he would never say he did not want her now. His sister, though different, was special and unique. He only wished other people could see it. Instead, he often heard their whispered words spoken under breath at him and her, the most common amongst them being 'Freak'. It never hurt him emotionally, but he wanted better for the sister he held so dear.

This went on for several months until one day, their mother told them they would be going for a walk into the city. She wanted to shop for the coming holiday and would very much like it if they came as well. Mycroft of course readily agreed, but to his surprise, so did his sister who gave a nod, a very rare reaction indeed in the presence of their mother. She however, did not even glimpse her daughter's way as she hurried towards the door with her purse, calling for a taxi.

Here in France they had lived many years within their grandmothers home after her sudden death. During that time, Sherlock had been born and the house had seemed more like home than ever before. Now, with their parents' divorce most likely underway, Mycroft felt the house was colder than it should be and he had the distinct impression, it would only get much worse over time. Therefore he reasoned this was the most likely motive for his mothers and sisters sudden urge to leave the home. He couldn't say he blamed them.

As he held his sisters hand while they walked along the sidewalk, deep into the heart of Paris, his mother stayed a good couple feet ahead of them, mumbling something to herself. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but she seemed a bit agitated, nervous almost. He frowned, unsure what that would imply.

"She's sad and scared," his sister suddenly whispered. "She is sad because of father. She is scared because of us."

Mycroft frowned.

"Whatever do you mean, us?"

Sherlock met his gaze.

"Mostly me, but you brother mine, she finds just as frightening. The way you stare at her from time to time, almost with pity and a small ounce of resentment towards her behavior when around me. She fears your maturity; your genius."

Mycroft frowned. He had come to discover the more his sister spoke, that while she was as brilliant as him, she also was much more emotional than him, she just didn't display it very well. She felt deeper than anyone he knew and this business with their mother and father, he could see it in her eyes, the window to the soul as they call it, how deeply it hurt her. She loved their parents, but she didn't feel comfortable around them and therefore, she couldn't seem to change her behavior in that regard.

As the siblings followed their mother, still whispering back and forth, they came to a stop by a park bench overlooking the lake.

"Sit here and do not move. I am going to go look in those shops alongside the road," she pointed to the right.

Mycroft gave a nod as she turned and made her way. Sherlock watched her, eyes narrowed almost thoughtfully.

"What is it?" Mycroft asked.

He had never seen that particular look before on his sister's face.

"Mother… she…" Sherlock paused, "Never mind."

Mycroft frowned. He turned to peer out over the lake. His sister silent beside him, a most rare occurrence in the presence of her older brother alone.

As the hours passed, Mycroft began to get restless. He stood up and stretched his legs, peering towards the shops in search of their mother. Sherlock remained silent, her eyes closed, hands clasped in front of her, just below her chin.

"She should surely be done by now, yes?" he sighed.

Sherlock opened her eyes and peered at her brother.

"Mycroft."

He turned to her.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Mother is… not coming back."

Mycroft froze.

"That's ridiculous, she…"

"She left us. Here. Purposely."

Mycroft felt his heart lurch at the sudden idea of it all. He knelt beside his sister and looked deep into her eyes.

"Is this what you saw before mother left? What you started to say and stopped?"

Sherlock hesitated merely a second before nodding. "I am sorry, Mycroft."

The older boy allowed himself to collapse to the ground beside the bench. His mother… she had left him. Worse yet, she had done it on purpose. Somehow he had known that was what she was doing, but to truly find it happening… was beyond him.

"Brother mine," his sister whispered.

He turned to her, almost numb feeling. He already knew what she was about to say, because he had thought the same when their father hadn't returned like he normally did this past week.

"I don't think father is coming back either."

Mycroft said nothing. He just sat there and his sister sat with him, silent.

Hours passed and the day turned to night. The air grew chilly around them and Sherlock shivered.


	5. Shadows

**In honor of the weekend, I have uploaded three chapters, one for today, tomorrow, and Sunday. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five:**

 **Shadows**

* * *

Mycroft stumbled down a dark alley, his sister's hand clenched tightly in his own as he peered around at the shadows they nearly seemed to dance around them. He felt the chill in the air, the strange sounds nearly unidentifiable, and more than anything… he felt a strange sense of loneliness and abandonment. The only thing that kept him from sinking to the ground in an obvious show of self-pity, was the child at his side, silent, watchful, and humming a tune he did not recognize.

Sherlock found the strangeness of the event somewhat fun. She enjoyed being out of the house with Mycroft and she also found the strange sounds and shadows around them, almost thrilling. The very question of how they would survive did not even enter her head as she walked with her brother, humming a tune she created on a whim.

A large bang further down the alley had Mycroft pulling her to a stop and taking an almost protective step in front of her. They both watched as a man, obviously drunk and quite old, stumbled into their line of sight. He had a beer bottle clutched in his hand and ratty clothes to go along with a ratty smell. He glanced at the two children, his eyes narrowing in order to try and see straight.

"Helloooooo there," he laughed, stumbling towards them.

Mycroft backed up a step, his hand nearly crushing his sister's fingers as he warily watched the man.

"You're awful young to be out here," the man hiccupped as he bent to look at them more closely. He took in Mycroft's fitted jacket and the girl's velvet dress, both signs these children came from a wealthy family. Mycroft never felt more vulnerable right then than ever before.

"Mighty fine dressings," the man hummed, his eyes looking them up and down.

Suddenly he tossed the bottle to the side, the glass shattering into a cloud around them. Mycroft shielded his sister the best he could from being cut, when a hard blow fell down upon his head.

Sherlock watched as her brother dropped to the moist cement. She watched the man in front of her as he laughed and began searching her brother's pockets, but growing annoyed when he found nothing of any value. He roughly grabbed Mycroft's jacket and peeled off of his shoulders before turning to her.

"The dress girl, give it to me."

Sherlock did not argue. She slowly brought the dress up and over her head, leaving her clad in a thin crème colored under garment. It still covered her naked body, but the air felt much colder as she handed the beautiful garment over to the thief.

He studied her for a moment before stumbling away and heading out of sight. Sherlock waited until he was fully gone before dropping next to her brother and shaking his arm.

"Mycroft?" she whispered, "Brother, can you hear me?"

He did not move and a small puddle of crimson had begun to form below his head. Worried, she stood and hurried back towards the street. There was no sign of anyone around that she could see. Frowning, she turned back, only to find a different man standing beside her brother, staring down at him. The closer she got, she realized he wasn't a man at all, but a boy, only slightly older than herself.

"You will not harm him?" she asked, untrusting.

This was surely the first time she had spoken to anyone besides her brother before, but she found herself oddly comfortable with the boy before her. His eyes, so intense with a strange passion, yet something about the look sent chills of adventure down her spine. He was like them, she could tell.

"This your brother?" he asked her, studying her form.

"Mycroft," she nodded, "I'm Sherlock."

The boy stared at her.

"James," he told her after a moment of contemplation, "my pals call me Jim."

They were both silent for a moment, unmoving, before he sighed.

"Look, uh, I know a place you guys can stay until he wakes."

Jim bent down, his face curling with disgust as he touched her brother and lifted him onto his back. She could tell he didn't want to be touching Mycroft in any way, but she was obviously too small to do it herself.

"Come along then, jeune."

Sherlock walked alongside him as they took he back alley ways towards the destination he spoke of. Both were silent before he finally spoke up.

"You aren't from the streets, obviously. Why are you here?"

Sherlock felt it didn't matter if she told him, so she spoke.

"Our mother abandoned us."

He was silent.

"That's all parents ever do," he finally commented.

Sherlock couldn't argue. She only ever knew her parents. Perhaps he is right.

After walking for quite a while, they finally stopped before a rather nice house. She knew exactly what was going on the moment she set eyes on it.

"Family on holiday?" she questioned.

He peered at her, a small surge of curiosity and acceptance entered his eyes before it left again and he nodded, fiddling with a lock pick.

"One of many homes away from home."

They were silent as they made their way inside and to the couch where he somewhat roughly dropped her brother. She made sure Mycroft was comfortable before turning to the strange boy, only to find him right behind her, his eyes peering into hers as he towered several heads over top of her. Yet she found she felt no fear of him, only a sort of adrenaline that seemed to burn throughout her entire being.

"You have… beautiful eyes, Sherlock," he whispered.

She stared back at him.

"I suppose I should say thank you," she replied in whisper.

He smiled.

"Nah. I will bring you some clothes and food tomorrow. For now, rest here tonight. I will show you around the homeless network when you feel up to it."

"The homeless network?" she asked, curious, as she followed him to the door.

He grinned.

"You'll love it. A whole bunch of kids, all skilled with theft and various other talents. We survive by working together. Of course, there is a single leader at the head of it all who orchestrates everything, but nonetheless, they are a body that works in unison to make certain the brain can plan as he wishes."

"And this brain, is you?"

He smirked and turned to her, his eyes suddenly filled with challenge.

"Not yet," he muttered, "but soon."

She peered at him and he stared straight back, before a moan from the other room interrupted the obvious moment between them.

"Goodnight Sherlock."

"Night… Jim."


	6. Homeless Network

**Chapter Six:**

 **Homeless Network**

* * *

Mycroft had a moderate concussion, if Sherlock's diagnosis of the facts were anything to go by. She made sure he stayed laying down and cooled with an ice pack all through the night. She also made sure to wake him every hour to make sure there was no brain damage. He remained stubbornly asleep more times than not, but when he did wake, all seemed well.

Around five that morning, the tinkering of a lock pick could be heard. Shutting the book she had been reading from the families selection of novels, this one a murder mystery, she stood and waited for Jim to enter.

Sure enough, the young boy stepped into the room, a grin on his face before he tossed a bag at her feet. Behind him, two more boys came stumbling into the room, each with another bag of things in their hands.

"That bag," he said pointing at the one he had tossed to her, "is clothes. These back here consist of food and various other things I thought you might need. I hope you don't mind, but I thought dressing as a boy might be safer for you than a girl, so I found you boy's clothes instead."

Sherlock opened the bag and pulled out a pair of trousers, a button down black shirt and an old coat that looked about her brother's size and placed them beside him on the floor. She then peered back in and pulled out a pair of jeans around her size, a white somewhat dirty tank top and a navy blue button shirt with a black cap. She studied them for a moment before Jim stepped up, his hand holding out another bag.

Curious, she peered into it and pulled out a small hairbrush, a pair of scissors, ace bandages, and a pair of dirty black shoes.

"I know it's not great, but it works," he commented.

Sherlock smiled.

"It's fine."

James smiled back before he turned to the other two boys still standing there and ordered them out of the room. They did as he ordered and quickly fled the house as he turned back to her.

"Get dressed and we shall go. Your brother should be fine here. I will keep some of the network watching the house in case of unexpected visitors."

Sherlock grabbed the hem of her undergarment, but stopped when she noticed he was still watching her. Not really caring, after all, she was only six, she stripped off her slip and grabbed her jeans. A hand on her shoulder stopped her and she looked up into the boy's eyes, obviously looking her over.

"Your skin is so… perfect. Like porcelain, it looks as though it would shatter if damaged even a little."

He ran his fingers over her throat and across her face, staring into her eyes as he rubbed a piece of her hair between his fingers. His eyes once again raked up and down her body before stepping back and turning away.

Taking this as his observations being completed, she quickly dressed and stuck the cap on her head as the final piece of the outfit. When done, James turned back to her and smiled with acceptance.

"Good enough. Come with me."

He held out his hand and after only a slight hesitation with a glance at the sleeping Mycroft, she grabbed it as he whisked her out of the house and outside, onto the sidewalk.

The two walked for a while, him pointing out the various places and people to look for. It was all rather amazing, in her opinion and obviously very complicated a network. She was almost proud to hear he was one of the leads.

"And of course, we are the best at finding lost things such as …" he was suddenly cut off when a large body slammed into him, causing Jim to fall onto his backside. Sherlock watched, intrigued, as the older boy laughed.

"Well, well, if it isn't Jimmy. I heard the orphanage couldn't handle your psychopathic tendencies any longer and cast you out. How sad… no one wants you. Especially not your parents!" the boy laughed and Jim merely smiled, but the smile was chilled, his eyes filled with hate, but his body remained calm and relaxed; he chuckled with the older boy who suddenly stopped, staring at him with disgust and horror.

"It is funny, is it not, Sherlock?" he asked, turning to the child the older boy only now noticed beside his target.

Sherlock was silent, studying the older boy. Jim grinned when he saw the bored expression on her face as she turned away, obviously done with him. There was something so… exciting, about her. He was thrilled to have found such an interesting toy.

"You are unworthy of my time," he stated instead, taking her hand in his own as he walked her around him, not allowing her to even brush him by mistake. He did not want her soured by his rancid personality.

"Hey, wait!" the boy yelled, but both Jim and Sherlock ignored him, continuing on.

James showed her the entire city. He showed her where different homeless stations were she could find help. He showed her the best places to steal food and clothes. He showed her the best places to get free things without stealing. He showed her everything, until finally they arrived at a dismal looking abandoned building and he swept his arm out in a mock bow.

"Headquarters," he replied with a smile, "ladies first, petite."

She stepped through and he followed, both suddenly flooded in light as several boys shined own flashlights.

"That you, Jim?"

"Of course it is," he huffed, "this is a friend I met yesterday. Boys, meet Sherlock."

Whispers spread throughout. Sherlock was silent, watching them as she and Jim headed deeper into the building. Finally, they arrived at a door. Knocking five times in a specific pattern, he opened the door and stepped inside. Sherlock stared at where five boys sat in a circle, all smoking and playing a card game. They all looked up when the two of them entered.

"Jim, didn't expect you back so soon," one commented, standing up and fist bumping James with obvious familiarity.

"Ah, boredom, you know how it is Seb."

James turned to Sherlock.

"This is Sebastian, my friend and partner on the streets. Guys, this is Sherlock. She and her brother met an unruly yesterday and I helped them find lodging for the time being. Mind if she stays around?"

The others shrugged, but watched her closely, almost curiously. She supposed it was curious for a new girl to arrive on scene wearing boy's clothes, but she had the impression that wasn't the only reason.

"I'll be back Sherlock. Get comfortable darling. Seb, watch her please."

Sebastian nodded as Jim suddenly left the room. She stared at those staring back at her.

"It's rare for Jim to find a pet," one commented.

"Pet?" she repeated.

"Ah, no offense love," the oldest boy replied, standing up and smiling, "it's the word we use for girl. What did he say your name was?"

"Sherlock," she repeated, though she knew he knew.

He smiled. "Sherlock, welcome. Unique name."

"I'm a unique individual," she replied, though not arrogantly; just a fact.

The boy behind the big man chuckled. She could tell almost immediately with his stance and the way the others watched him now, he was the one in charge.

"So we are beginning to see. James himself is unique, I suppose it fits." He stared at her, smiling. "My name is Victor. Those on the streets refer to me as Redbeard, due to my red hair and my taste for piracy. It is also the name used when needing to remain discrete, should listening ears be found in the vicinity."

"Redbeard," she repeated, "quite audacious."

Victor smiled. "I will take that as a compliment."

"And so you should," she replied, smiling back.

A clearing of the voice had both turning to the doorway, where James stood, frowning.

"I am glad to see you both are getting along, but time is of the essence. I must bring Sherlock back to her… current abode."

"Shall I go with?" Victor suddenly asked, standing, running a hand through his sweaty hair, "I need a good stretch."

James was silent, but she could see the hidden irritation bubbling just below the surface. Still, he was the leader here and James had no other choice but to agree. With a look at those around the room, the three exited and began making their way onto the street.


	7. Redbeard

**Chapter Seven:**

 **Redbeard**

* * *

Mycroft was very unhappy when he awoke to find his sister gone. Luckily for him, he had only just gotten dressed in the clothes he found left for him, when she and her two new compatriots walked in. While he immediately became suspicious of their motives, he found it odd how quickly his sister had accepted them and spoke so much to them, though she never had with their own flesh and blood.

As the days passed, the two of them, once Mycroft had recovered some, were taken further into their homeless network. James was like a shadow, in and out of their lives. One moment he would be there and the next, you would look around and he was gone. Victor on the other hand, immediately bonded with Mycroft as much as he had Sherlock. He showed them around, chatting and laughing in a relaxed manner. He also went to great strides in order to make them feel comfortable at the headquarters where they moved after word had reached them that the family whose home they were currently staying, had returned.

While they found themselves getting along splendidly with their new mates, only Victor and James were regularly around. The rest, though friendly, kept a distance that Mycroft noted as somewhat peculiar. Still, he preferred it, compared to the idea of their hanging around needlessly. He spent many nights reading all the books he could find in their den of treasures and spent his days walking the city, observing people.

Sherlock was much the same in many ways. She seemed comfortable with the distance most of their new acquaintances kept and if one would guess, it was most likely due to Victor and James' own presence. Being that they are two of the network leaders, not many wished to intrude on their fun and with Sherlock, you always had fun. Every day with her was like an adventure for the two older boys. With James, she would spend countless hours staking places out, watching people, and planning heists of artistic stratagem. With Victor, they would vanish into the forest, gone nearly all day, before returning scraped and dirty, but grinning from ear to ear.

In many ways, Mycroft found these days on the streets to be the most peaceful and homely they had ever experienced. In others, he found them the most damaging. He could literally sense his upper class title fading and with it, all the privileges they could have had at their disposal. He felt as though everything he knew was gone… and he despised and treasured it, all at the same time.

Still he took the entire thing as though it were a challenge from the Universe. He began making contacts with various homeless groups, he studied books on business and history, and made certain, whenever anything came up about stealing from a unique and interest worthy individual arose, he was involved. He dreamed to one day make himself a position of great power and influence, one that would allow him and his sister to be accepted by all and if they weren't, he would force them to accept them like their family never had. He wanted the connections this street network granted him and he knew with it, he would find more prospective contacts along the way.

Sherlock had no future plans in mind as she spent her days enjoying life. Sure, she had never foreseen such a time as this occurring, but she found it invigorating, the constant uncertainty each day held. Would the police find them? Would they get enough money or food for the day? Who could they try various plans on without causing injury or great financial damage? She enjoyed the thrill each heist gave her, but she didn't want to hurt anyone. For her, it was merely a high she had never experience before… and she loved it.

Then one day, things began to change.

James began to slowly stop coming around. His visits shortened, his smiles dimmed, and eventually, he was gone. No one knew where he went. No one really even looked for him. Only Sherlock had an inkling as to the reason and oddly, she found herself anticipating it whole heartedly.

In the meantime, Victor and she began to grow closer. At age sixteen, Victor was getting older and was beginning to see life as what it could be, rather than what he had always assumed it would stay. He also began to see Sherlock in a different light.

Sherlock who was now nine years old, was still quite young, but it wasn't unheard of in those days, for a girl, around the age of twelve, to marry and start a family. While Sherlock's mind never even thought of this as an option for her future, Victors had. He began casually at first, flirting here and there, try to tell whether she felt the same as he did.

If Mycroft noticed, he said nothing. Sherlock on the other hand, was completely oblivious to his attempts. Seeing this, he went all out, bringing her flowers when he found them, stealing her chocolate and jewels when he could, as well as asking her to accompany him on long walks through the forest. She always smiled at him and accepted his gifts and offers of company, but she never put two and two together. While Sherlock was a genius at nearly everything, when it came to love, she was a stone, unfeeling and inflexible.

As another year passed, James was forgotten by all but Sherlock. She still waited and watched, ready for his sudden appearance. Victor however, only seemed to dive deeper in his quest to entice the love of his life. At the age of seventeen, Victor decided he would tell her his feelings once and for all.

"Sherlock?" Victor called as he walked into the Holmes sibling's room.

Mycroft, who sat at the table reading, glanced up at the other boy's appearance. They were both the same age and nearly the same height, Mycroft being ever the slightest bit taller. They met gazes and Mycroft could only smirk and shake his head as the other cleared his throat, blushing, and turned to search for the sister.

Mycroft knew of Sherlock's obliviousness to love and he also knew, like himself, his sister often buried any other emotion deep within herself. If she did feel anything like affection in regard to Victor, she would never show it willingly, lest she feel herself weak. Unfortunately, it was a strong characteristic in the Holmes household. He wished the red head luck.

Sherlock, who had just stepped out of the bathroom, walked nearly straight into Victor whom she hadn't been expecting. Victor stepped back immediately and Sherlock glared at him half-heartedly before moving past him towards the other chair across from Mycroft.

"Sherlock, I… there is something I would like to speak with you about. Would you mind accompanying me on a walk?"

Sherlock blinked, a bit startled by his polite and formal tone, but shrugged and stood, grabbing her jacket from the bed.

"Sure. Lead the way."

Victor breathed a sigh of relief, ignoring the all-knowing look in her brother's eye as he stepped past him to the door. Sherlock went to follow, but a gentle hand at her elbow stopper her.

"Mycroft?"

"Sherlock… do remember to be… gentle, alright?"

Sherlock frowned, confused, but continued along behind her friend. She didn't understand what Mycroft meant by that, but she figured she would know when the time came.

And came, it did.

It started out like any other walk. They made their way at a slow pace through the streets of Paris and then towards the forest, chatting as they went. It was only when they had entered the forest that things became strange. Victor suddenly went quiet, fidgeting almost nervously. Sherlock wanted to inquire as to what was wrong, but something in her mind said not to, so she stayed silent and waited.

When they finally reached the river where they often sat hours on end, talking and laughing, he reached over and took her hand, guiding her to a large rock. Curious, she sat down on the rock and watched her friend as he paced and ran long fingers through his hair.

"Sherlock, I have known you many years now. Four, to be exact, and… you have become… important, to me."

His face was red and Sherlock hummed.

"I suppose I might say the same," Sherlock admitted. Would she consider him a friend? She thought of the times they had spoken together, walked together, and strangely even laughed together. Yes, she would consider him a friend. It was a rare thing indeed for the high functioning, autistic, little girl.

Victor looked relieved as he suddenly knelt beside her, gently taking her pale little hand in his.

"Sherlock, there eventually comes a time when a man must consider moving on with his life. During that time, he searches for a woman with which to share that life. Do you understand?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"Err… well, marriage, I mean. When a man loves a woman, he wishes to be with her forever, you know? I… What I mean to say is… this life hasn't been fair to us and I wish to make a better one, for me and my wife."

Sherlock blinked. "That is… good of you?"

He sighed, hanging his head. It was obvious she wasn't understanding.

"Sherlock… I would like that woman to be you."

Sherlock froze, her breathing stopped, and she stared unseeing at the boy before her. Was he asking… did he mean… he couldn't possibly… She sighed.

"Victor…"

Hearing her tone, he quickly stood and lifted his hands as though in surrender.

"I don't mean now, of course. You may take a year or two or even three to think it through. However, I would like you to consider me as a possible love interest."

Sherlock was silent. She could tell he was serious and now, her brother's words made perfect sense. 'Be gentle…' he had said. Be gentle with her rejection, he meant. However, did she want to reject him? He is her friend, isn't he? Should she not stay with the man she has come to consider her only friend? Would it truly be that bad of a thing, being his wife? She had never considered the idea before and although these thoughts swept through her mind, she never considered them again during that time.

"Victor, I am not like a normal woman. I have…" she paused, unsure of how to continue in a 'gentle' way. "I don't share your feelings of love. I am… in many regards, a high functioning sociopath. I don't feel as you do and if I do feel, it is deeply and with a passion. It just… does not exist when I look at you."

That was gentle… right?

Victor was frozen, his eyes staring at hers.

"I…" she paused, what was that word Mycroft told her to say when she hurt someone? Oh yes… "I am sorry, Victor."

Victor sighed, a hand scrubbing at his eyes that he attempted to hide which were now red and watery looking. Sherlock found the sight strange and… oddly touching in a way; that he would cry over her.

"I knew you would say that," he replied.

She highly doubted that, but stayed silent with her opinion.

"I knew you would reject me," he amended.

She wondered if he had read her mind.

"I can see it will never happen, but I…" he paused, face flushed, "could I trouble you… just once, for a kiss?"

Sherlock blinked.

"A kiss?" she repeated.

"Yes, you know… when a man loves a woman… they share a moment of intimacy. While I can see this is obviously one sided… I still… I desire…"

Sherlock cannot be sure what occurred in that moment. All at once, he was kissing her. His lips, dry and chapped against her own. There was a desperation in that kiss… a need that she couldn't understand and then suddenly, it was over. He was staring at her, his face flushed.

"So… what do you think?" he whispered.

Her eyes suddenly noted movement overhead.

"James."

"James?" he questioned, frowning.

Sherlock had only a moment to move when a bullet sank where she had been sitting. Victor turned, his cheek bleeding from where it had grazed him. He stared, wide eyed, at the sight that met him. James stood there with three other large boys, one of whom she recognized as Sebastian. Each one held a weapon of some sort, but only James held a gun. It didn't take a genius to see why they had come.

"James… what are you doing?" Victor demanded.

Sherlock sighed inwardly. Okay, maybe it did take a genius.

James however was glaring, his expression fierce, until suddenly it changed and a large grin spread across his face, cold as ice.

"Victor, my bud, you were always such an amusing source of entertainment and I loved provoking your moods and swaying your judgements, but" he sighed mockingly, "like any good game, it must always come to an end at some point. Now, you're just a bother and I really, need you gone."

Victor frowned, jumping to his feet to stand in front of Sherlock when James shifted his gaze to her. James only smiled wider at the movement.

"Oh don't worry, Sherlock is beyond anything I could imagine. She is…" he paused as though searching for the right word, "special… unique, even. Like me."

"She is nothing, like you!" Victor shouted.

James only chuckled, a dead sound in the silence of the forest.

"She is exactly like me," he restated, his gaze faltering as his grip on the gun tightened, "but you… you dared to think she would become like you, a normal, worthless, boring individual?! That you could-could contaminate her?!"

His eyes were angry, his lip risen in a snarl.

Victor frowned, stepping back. He could see the growing rage in the younger man and so could Sherlock. They both knew they would have to make a break for it, or risk being killed then and there. Not that she thought he would kill her, but she didn't want Victor killed either. For some reason, despite the rejection, she cared about his wellbeing.

"Oh my count… run," he whispered.

"Now, the time has come…" James continued.

"One."

"To put you, out of my misery."

"Two."

"Goodbye Victor… I won't see you again."

"Three!"

The two took off through the forest. Bullets followed them and angry shouts could be heard. Sherlock ran as fast and as hard as she could, only stopping when she suddenly sensed Victor was no longer behind her. Turning, she was startled to see him kneeling on the ground, panting. Stepping forward, she was about to say something when another bullet ricocheted off a nearby tree. Hurrying forward, she helped him, ignoring the blood now staining her shirt as he leaned heavily against her, his shoulder having been shot.

"I can't… you must… leave me, Sherlock," he panted.

She ignored his cries as they continued running. Suddenly he tripped and she couldn't keep him up. Her knees hit the ground alongside his and stunned, she had no time to defend herself, when the sight of one of the boys with a bat suddenly smashed into her back and along her side. The pain was so excruciating, she felt her vision falter as her body hit the dirt.

A concerned shout came from above, but she couldn't clearly see who it had come from. Another shout, this one much angrier, also sounded above her. She had no time to try and piece together this mystery, as she suddenly felt the darkness enclose and the sky fade; and she knew nothing.


	8. Awakening

**Chapter Eight:**

 **Awakening**

* * *

Upon waking, she found herself still lying in the forest; the sky now dimmed with the setting sun. Brilliant yellows, oranges, and pinks swirled overhead, but all she could focus on, was the pain.

"Sherlock?" a voice questioned.

She blinked, her eyes rolling to find the voice.

"Sherlock?!"

She suddenly sensed movement to the side and what pain she had felt before, was nothing compared to the pain she felt then when she was suddenly moved. She groaned in agony and the darkness claimed her once again.

The second time she awoke, she was lying on a soft cushion which she realized was the bed from their room. Next to her, she also noted, was Mycroft, silently reading a book. Upon having noticed she was staring, he placed the book down and regarded her wordlessly for a moment, before speaking.

"What do you remember?"

She frowned.

"I… Victor and I went to walk and he… we talked and… James showed up."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his sister's lack of details. It was unusual for her.

"And?"

"He…" she frowned, her memories fuzzy, "I think he got shot. We fell and… I don't know. I can't remember anymore."

Mycroft nodded. He sat there deep in thought for a moment before pulling a slip of paper from his back pocket. "This was left for you."

Sherlock took the note, not moving any more than she had to. Unfolding it, she began to read it aloud.

 ** _I that am lost, oh who will find me?_**

 ** _Deep down below the old beech tree._**

 ** _Help succour me now the east winds blow._**

 ** _Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!_**

 ** _Without your love, he'll be gone before._**

 ** _Save pity for strangers, show love the door._**

 ** _My soul seeks the shade of my willow's bloom_**

 ** _Inside, brother_**

 ** _Let Death make a room._**

 ** _Be not afraid to walk in the shade._**

 ** _Save one, save all, come try!_**

 ** _My steps – five by seven_**

 ** _Life is closer to Heaven-_**

 ** _Look down, with dark gaze, from on high…_**

 ** _Before he was gone – right back over my hill._**

 ** _Who now will find him?_**

 ** _Why, nobody will._**

 ** _Doom shall I bring to him, I that am king._**

 ** _Lost here forever, nine by nineteen._**

 ** _JM_**

"This is…"

"We found it beside you, with no sign of Victor. The initials. I asked around and they belong to…"

"James Moriarty," Sherlock finished for him, her hand crumpling the note.

"Yes," he nodded, "I attempted to follow the clues, but…"

Mycroft paused and Sherlock noted he looked extremely upset.

"I couldn't figure it out."

Sherlock searched her mind for the answer, but like her brother, the clue escaped her. Still, it didn't mean she didn't try.

Weeks passed and she continued to search for its meaning. Eventually weeks became months and months turned into years. With Victor now presumed long dead and James exiled from all homeless and street networks within Paris, leadership of the group fell to Mycroft whom everyone accepted, but he in turn passed it to Sherlock. Neither Holmes sibling really did anything with the network that would be considered substantial, but they did search out their parents. With connections spread beyond the country and into England, Germany, and Russia beyond, they weren't overly surprised when word finally arrived to them that their father had been located in Switzerland, now living with a new wife in a large mansion. Their mother had moved to England and was working as a maid in a wealthy household.

Though they had no intention to seek revenge on their family, they knew the only chance for a real future lay outside of France and in the homeland of their lineage, England.

At nineteen years old, Mycroft had a goal in mind. He had saved all the money he could over the years they had spent on the street. Anything worth value he had sold and all those agonizingly long hours spent on unique heists to interesting places, he had been particular on what he took. His plans paid off and now he was ready to move on with phase two.

Sherlock had never stopped visiting the forest, though she always went alone and only for one hour. After that hour, she would return and work on constructing her mind palace. While Mycroft would be the first to admit his sister was brilliant, he would never easily admit she was far more intelligent than him. In fact, he would even argue she wasn't, but her ability to truly comprehend people, made her nearly more receptive to the world as a whole and he envied her that ability.

He knew facts, but she knew people. As he made plans to leave France once and for all, she made plans to focus all her attention on building her skills. She took James' clue as a personal challenge, a mocking failure to hound her with and she was affronted. Mycroft knew she would never admit it, but he could see the uncertainty surrounding the disappearance of Victor Trevor had left her shaken. She sought answers, but found none. In her eyes, nothing could be worse than being unable to solve what should be obvious and to her, his fate was very obvious in a flawed way.

"Sister, come with me, to England."

Her answer had been as he expected.

"No."

He didn't push. Perhaps he should have.


	9. What Transpired

_**Chapter Nine:**_

 _ **What Transpired**_

* * *

What transpired after Mycroft leaving France was as follows.

Upon arriving in England, he completed his education for high school in a years' time at a public school that was free, aside from books. With his diploma in hand, he applied for scholarships which he found easily earned due to his potential. With those scholarships, he enrolled at Cambridge where he was immediately accepted. There he met and made contacts with some very powerful individuals. At age twenty-one, he applied for a job in the British government as a part-time clerk. He got the job and from there, it became merely a matter of time before he reached the position he so desired.

Back in France, Sherlock had withdrawn from nearly everyone after her brother left. She still had the network seeking any information she could find on James and his comrades, but so far, there was nothing. It was as though the boy had vanished into thin air. At age fourteen, while her brother was accepted into Cambridge, Sherlock was introduced to drugs. At the beginning, she found them revolting and degrading. However, after a chance encounter with an unattended needle, she found her curiosity too alluring to pass thing she knew, once became twice and twice went on to become multiple times in the course of one day.

It was only after a near overdose, that her brother became aware of what was happening in France concerning his sister. A call to him from Paris from an emergency attendant had him on the first plane ride back he could find; worry, guilt, and anger coursing through his core.

After a somewhat cold reception and a refusal to see the obvious, he forcefully took his sister with him and placed her in a rehab facility. There she stayed for several months until they deemed her clean. While she certainly wouldn't thank him, she seemed almost resigned to his plans for her; in his eyes, resigned usually meant she was thankful, though she would never admit it. His sister was certainly a prideful creature, but then again, so was he.

They flew come France to England. She lived with him for a time, but drugs seemed to make a reappearance. Hoping to force her need for a thrill into something more productive, he decided on the off chance it might work, to introduce her to a friend from high school; truly the only friend from high school.

"Lestrade, this is my sister, Sherlock. Sherlock, Officer Gregory Lestrade of the London Police. "

Officer Greg Lestrade had been told beforehand why Mycroft was introducing his little sister to him. Looking at her now, however, what with her sharp cheekbones, icy blue eyes, porcelain white skin, and thin, nearly anorexic looking body… he wondered how she would handle the gruesome murders they had at the police department. Her beauty was nearly incomparable with those dark curls cascading down her shoulders, but the look he saw in her eyes… it was the only reason he hadn't protested more adamantly. He knew nothing of the Holmes life before having met Mycroft in high school, but he could see a hardness there, that a female or even a man, normally didn't carry.

"A pleasure," he replied, stretching out his hand to the girl.

She couldn't be more than sixteen or seventeen years old, but the maturity he saw there left him wondering if that was a correct estimation or not.

"And I," she replied, though her tone implied boredom.

"So, your brother said you might be interested in assisting me with some cases?"

Sherlock was silent, her eyes sweeping up and down the café they were currently sitting in. Taking her silence as an acknowledgement of his statement, he continued.

"Well, obviously you won't get paid for your help and I can't guarantee your name being spoken by many, but…"

"Boring," she sighed.

Mycroft glared at his sister. "Manners," he hissed in her ear.

Sending her elder brother a glare of her own, she reiterated her statement. "Boring because I don't want fame or money. Just give me a challenge."

Greg found himself momentarily at a loss for words. Was this girl serious? She was excited about the idea of murder? He felt a cold chill run down his spine at the look in her eyes. Oh yes, she was completely serious.

"There will certainly be that."

She smiled. "Good."

Greg walked out shivering and not for the last time.

Over the span of several years, Sherlock became a nearly accepted presence at any crime scene. Of course, there were the occasional few who voiced their complaints concerning her being there, but the success she had in solving cases, muted any noise they could make in the ears of the higher powers. What Greg had told her had been the truth, not many of the solved cases were accredited to her, but she never cared. As good as her word, she solved them, enjoyed the thrill, and always left before the reporters were called.

Of course, what happens so often can't presume to be kept secret forever. The newspapers eventually got wind of the teenage female detective who is consulted by the police. People grew interested and the rest, as they say, is history. Sherlock Holmes became a sensation overnight and with it, came multiple cases to solve in the privacy of her own room. As the cases for the police began to dwindle due to pressure from the higher powers to raise police-citizen dependability and investigative ability, so she turned to more wealthy clients who came wanting to stay away from the police registrar. Her cases were as good as any and she kept note of them, though she rarely if ever outside police jurisdiction. Of course she still used those talents she developed as a child to steal and search for the answers she sought so diligently, but she always allowed any and all killers, crooks, or kidnappers, a true judicial punishment. It was what kept her from becoming like James Moriarty, her childhood nemesis, and she intended to keep it that way.

Her search for him never faltered during her time in England and eventually, her search paid off. She began to receive letters concerning an underground criminal world in which he was one of the leading sovereigns. His name was on the lips of every low life and while nothing could be had concerning his illegal activities and current whereabouts, nevertheless, she followed him as a blood hound would a quarry.

She knew one day, their paths would cross again and when they did, she wouldn't allow him to slip by unhindered.


	10. The Flat Mate

**Sherlock is now 19, John is 22, and Lestrade and Mycroft are 26**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten:**

 **The flat mate**

* * *

 **Two Years Later…**

John Watson stepped off the plane, his army bag slung over his shoulder as he took a deep breath, inhaling that fresh city air he had missed so much during his time away. London was home and though he had enjoyed his time fighting oversees, he was glad to be back in the city he so loved.

"John!" a voice shouted.

Mike Stamford, an old school friend, stood leaning against his car, a large smile on his face.

"Mike!" he greeted, "thank you so much for picking me up. I know it was out of your way."

"Ah, I don't mind," Mike grinned, kindly patting his pal on the back.

The two loaded into the car and began their journey back towards London. The atmosphere was a comfortable silence, until John sighed and began flipping through the ads on his phone.

"What are you doing, Johnny?" his friend asked, slightly leaning over to take a peek.

John chuckled and moved his phone closer to his friend, so the other wouldn't wreck while trying to snoop.

"Looking for a flat. With Harry and me not being on real… speaking terms, I need somewhere to stay for the time being. Problem is, I don't have a lot of finances and no doubt, it will be difficult to find a flat mate to share rent with on so short of notice."

Mike was silent for a moment, a contemplative expression etched across his face.

"What is it?" John inquired, worried something had upset his friend.

"Nothing good man. Just… you're the second individual I've heard mention such a thing to me today."

John hummed. "Who was the first?"

Mike glanced at John.

"A very unique person. One might even say, peculiar."

"Oh, what's wrong with him?"

Mike chuckled. "That is up for debate, but honestly… you may just have to see for yourself… that is if you're interested?"

John shrugged.

"I wouldn't mind sharing a flat with someone, as long as their descent enough."

"Well… Sherlock is certainly descent to look at. It's her personality that might be tricky."

John blinked. "Her?"

"Yeah, Sherlock is a woman. See, she had been living with her brother, but due to… sibling tension, she has instead invested in a flat in the heart of London. I don't know much about it, you will have to talk to her to know more."

John was silent.

"You have a problem living with a woman?" Mike asked, a bit surprised.

"No," John answered quickly, before suddenly realizing what he had said, "I mean… it is a bit odd, but no, not really. As long as she doesn't mind living with a man she doesn't know."

Mike chuckled again.

"Well so far, I have yet to see anyone seduce or scare Sherlock Holmes. She isn't what you would call…"

"Romantic?"

"Normal," Mike argued, "I know that sounds bad, but… well, you'll see for yourself."

John was definitely curious, if nothing else.

Grabbing his phone, he began typing in the name 'Sherlock Holmes'. Search.

The articles that came up were astounding. She was obviously quite well-known for her achievements with the police and her track record for her own private cases was just as amazing. While she wasn't widely celebrated, her name was obviously both feared and respected both by the media and criminal populations if the internet was to be believed. Still, he found no images of the woman.

He was certainly eager to meet this mysterious creature for himself.

When the car pulled up to a blocked off street, he stared in wonder at all the cameras flashing, people edging the line to see what was happening, and how utterly chaotic the noise was. Still, he, like everyone else, was drawn towards a particular area.

"Same killer as before, I'm sure of it. Notice the scorch marks on the ground around her feet. She was obviously sitting here when the bomb exploded," a sharp, but delicate tone rang out above the noise of the crowd.

"Are you sure, what if it's…"

"Have I ever lead you wrong, Lestrade?"

"…"

"Shut up…" she retorted.

John couldn't help but chuckle as he drew closer to the police tape, his suitcase in hand.

A young man with dark brown hair, slightly graying despite his age, ducked under the tape, his hand holding it up for the person following. Behind him, walking rather aggressively with dangerous, almost manic glint in her eyes, was a beautiful young woman. She had pale, white porcelain skin, ruby red lips, icy blue eyes that seemed to reflect the sky, and black short curls that framed her sharp features. A long blue coat was wrapped around her lean figure and a deep red scarf wrapped comfortably around her neck. Tall leather black boots adorned her feet, reaching up towards her knees. Jeans and a button up turquoise shirt could be seen beneath the coat; the collar of her coat lifted high as though blocking the wind.

John felt almost stunned by her beauty, but if the spark in her eye was anything to go by, saying as much would not get you very far. It was obvious she didn't care much about her appearance, natural beauty or not. If anything, he could read very clearly in her movements and the way she spoke, that intelligence was by far the thing she valued the most.

Behind the two, a young dark skinned woman with a scowl made after them, a small notebook and pen in hand.

"Uh, excuse me," he called out to the woman.

She stopped and eyed him. "Yeah?"

He smiled as kindly as he could.

"I am looking for a woman named Sherlock Holmes. Do you know where I might find her?"

The woman's scowl deepened.

"What do you want with the freak?" she asked, obviously irritated by his question.

Before John could respond, the beautiful, slight young woman from before was suddenly there, her eyes intensely studying his own for a moment. She seemed to look him over almost judgingly, before a look of interest dawned her expression.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" she repeated.

"Afghanistan, how did you…"

"I can see you're clearly an army doctor, what with the way you hold yourself and the condition of your hands, extremely steady and your eyes, focused and attentive to detail. Not to mention the pack you carry, standard army regulation. There are only so many battles being fought at this moment where British soldiers are expected to stand and fight and considering I noticed you have a slight limp when you walk, I can only guess you must have just arrived back, no doubt honorably discharged due to injury."

John laughed. "That … that is brilliant."

Sherlock blinked before suddenly smirking, her eyes sparkling at the compliment.

"Thank you. Now, shall we go check out the flat?"

John blinked before he found himself walking with her towards the taxi she had signaled. People watched from a distance, but no one dared speak to them as they passed the crowds. He was silent, stunned, as he got in beside her.

With the taxi pulling off the side of the road and into traffic, he turned to her.

"How did you know I wanted to talk to you about the flat?"

"Well just yesterday I spoke to Stamford about purchasing an apartment and how I was thinking of pursuing a flat mate. Then suddenly, I looked up from a crime scene to see him pulling away and you being left behind. Why would he leave you behind unless he assumed you would either find a different ride or meet with someone on scene? Seeing as how you were newly returned from the army and I was the one whom you inquired about, I could only assume it was about the flat, especially after noticing the bag slung over your shoulder and the suitcase you hold in hand. After all, why bring you all the way out here only to leave you to find a new ride if it were not for the purpose of inquiring about future lodging with the potential flat mate in question."

"That… sounds so simple when you put it like that," John stated, impressed.

"Nothing is more deceptive than obvious fact," Sherlock replied, but a teasing smile hung across her lips.  
"Huh," he uttered, but was silent for the rest of the ride, the silence comfortable.

* * *

 **IF THE CROWN FITS**

* * *

John Watson certainly didn't need much time to consider living with this wondrous individual who went by the name of Sherlock Holmes. She was brilliant, beautiful, sassy, calm, cool, and collected and so much more. As he watched her each morning, afternoon, and evening, he saw more and more of what made Sherlock Holmes the celebrated detective that she is.

Her knowledge of chemistry, anatomy, and psychology were astounding. Her literary knowledge of criminals and crimes throughout the world and all throughout history were unchallenged. She was by far the most brilliant individual he had ever had the pleasure of meeting and yet, she had her drawbacks, some more extreme than others. She was snobby, aware of her own brilliance and seemed to thrive in the limelight of the media. She survived on the thrill of the chase, each crime and criminal, a drug to whom he discovered was a former junkie. She was cold, unfeeling, and intolerable of those she considered idiots and yet… he found himself drawn to her, like a bee to honey.

Still, in the months he came to know Sherlock Holmes, he also discovered she had many secrets. He knew nothing of her past, her family, or how she came to be a celebrated teenage detective. She never offered to share and he never asked, feeling it to deep a question for their newly formed acquaintanceship. Still, he couldn't help but be curious about her roots.

He never thought it would all spill out in the most deadly and sudden of ways…

The morning was that of a Sunday and John was the first one up and making coffee, as was the morning tradition when a knock suddenly sounded on their door.

"Come in," John called.

The doorknob twisted open and a man dressed in a black suit stepped in, a beautiful cane in hand. He had brown thinning hair for his age, pale skin, deep dimples, and eyes that seemed to see into your soul. He was tall and quite thin despite his build, but it was the way he looked at John that drew the good doctor's attention. The look was almost envious, for lack of a better term.

"You must be Doctor Watson."

"Uh…yeah," John stood up, a forced smile on his face, "I am. And you are?"

The man was silent, staring at the hand as John slowly lowered it, his smile fading.

"You moved in with Sherlock Holmes nearly two months ago. What are your thoughts on her?"

John stared at him. Who was this guy?

"Uh, well, she is… amazing. She's creative, brilliant, a bit egotistical, slightly crazy, uh…"

The man chuckled dryly, but his eyes seemed to warm ever so slightly.

"How much can I pay you to keep an eye on her and report everything she does to me?"

John froze as the man drew out his checkbook, pen in hand. Was this guy serious?

"I… You… Nothing."

The man stared at him.

"You don't want anything for spying on her for me?"

"No I mean… I won't spy on her. Who the heck are you anyways?"

Again, the man ignored his question. "I offer you a hundred thousand dollars. Will you do it?"

John gaped. A hundred thousand?! Still, he swallowed and his fists clenched, eyes narrowed. "No."

The man was silent before slowly he put his checkbook back into his coat pocket, his pen tucked nearly inside along with it, before he suddenly leaned on the cane and stared at him before a slight smile broke out across his face, eyes twinkling.

"I like him Sherlock," he replied loudly to the silence of the apartment.

John stared at him in confusion as Sherlock suddenly emerged from her bedroom, her slight frame nearly drowned in the long blue robe she wore. A gray tank-top clearly outlined her chest and a pair of short gray shorts adorned her pale legs as she shuffled past the duo and to her chair where she sleepily curled up, her eyes gazing at the two of them with obvious boredom and slight amusement with a hint of irritation mixed in.

"Did you really try and pay off my new roommate?" she asked with a sigh.

John blinked as the tall man turned to her and began to speak with a sense of familiarity.

"Of course, sister mine."

"Sister…" John repeated, stunned.

Sherlock sighed again.

"John Watson, meet my older brother Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, John."

Mycroft regarded the doctor again before tilting his head ever so slightly. "A pleasure, Doctor Watson. Anyone who can put up with my sister for more than a day deserves much more than a hundred thousand dollars."

John just shook his head, confused and a bit shocked as he took a seat in his chair across from his flat mate. Sherlock seemed amused as she watched him before turning to regard her brother once again.

"So why are you here Mycroft? I don't assume it's due to your missing my presence in the mansion?"

Mycroft regarded her gently.

"Hardly," he responded, before his voice suddenly deepened and his expression turned serious. "I received a message a couple days ago from the network."

Sherlock sat up, her attention completely locked on her brother as John listened, noting her sudden somberness.

"And?" she asked.

Mycroft hesitated.

"They found a lead. Here in England, the taxi killer you recently took down. Him and the last couple cases you solved, they all had been employed by him, threads unwinding into the depths of the criminal underground."

"After all this time… he wants to be found."

Mycroft was silent as Sherlock stood up, her hands locked behind her back as she made her way to the window to stare down at the street below in subdued silence.

"Who is this?" John asked the brother, but he ignored him, his eyes locked on Sherlock.

"What will you do?"

Sherlock was silent before turning to regard her brother.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" he repeated, "you have been searching all these years for a lead and you let it go now that you have it?"

Sherlock seemed almost amused by her brother's statement.

"Mycroft, if we have found a lead now, it is only because he wishes it to be found. I need not do a thing, because soon, he will come to me all on his own."

Mycroft frowned and stepped forward.

"I can protect you."

"I don't need your protection. I need… closure."

The room was tense in the silence as the two regarded one another, John looking between them.

"Suit yourself," he finally stated as he turned and headed to the door, "should you need me…"

Sherlock smiled.

"You know where to find me," she replied.

Mycroft said nothing as he turned and shut the door behind him.

John regarded his friend for a moment before speaking.

"Mind explaining?"

Sherlock studied him a moment before glancing back to the window.

"Care to go for a walk, John?"

He could hardly say no.

* * *

 **The quote "Nothing is more deceptive than obvious fact" is strictly Arthur Conan Doyle, as are the characters, obviously.**


End file.
